


like clockwork

by Anonymous



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pining, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-12-04 09:55:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11552745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Otabek had always thought that he knew Yuri, until he realises that he doesn’t.





	like clockwork

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in February in a furious haze of spite. It was originally posted on Tumblr.

A little over two years after winning his first Grand Prix Final, Yuri graduates second in his class.

“Congratulations,” Otabek says after a pause, slightly surprised.

“I bet you're surprised.” Otabek can hear the accusation in Yuri’s voice even through the phone. “Victor nearly had a conniption. He thought I was going to fail all my subjects.”

“Yes, a little,” Otabek admits. “I was worried about how you would keep up after you transferred from your sports school. I guess I didn't need to be so concerned after all.”

“Well, I liked the new environment, even though I was only there like once a week,” Yuri says, somewhat defensively. “Probably only _because_ I was only there once a week, actually. Everyone in the sports school was dumb. I told you. Sports were all they cared about, but what about after? I don't want my life to go completely downhill after my mid-twenties or something. There has to be something after skating, right?”

“Fair enough.” Otabek has heard this rant more times than he cares to remember. “Your results are still impressive, though.”

“I mean, they’re all right. The girl who topped the class, apparently she’s been on exchange to France and her French mark was insane. That's not fair. I’ve never even been sent to the _Trophée de France_.” Yuri pronounces the name of the competition with an easy French accent instead of guttural Russian. It’s so utterly incongruous with what Otabek knows of Yuri that he feels like his whole body skips a beat. The world doesn’t tilt on its axis, not exactly, but Otabek slowly lets out his next breath.

“Did you take French as well?” Otabek asks.

“Oui, je parle français,” Yuri says— this time, in a terrible, Americanised accent. _Jay parle fron-say._

“I didn’t know that,” Otabek says. He feels like he should have known it. They say that people have different selves in different languages. Come to think of it, he’s only really known Yuri in Russian.

“Why would you? I never talk about school,” Yuri says carelessly, but something in Otabek’s chest dips unhappily. Yuri’s never talked about school, but Otabek could have asked. He just assumed that Yuri simply didn’t want to talk — but Otabek would have wanted to listen to Yuri’s thoughts. 

Otabek tells Yuri about his human science university course sometimes. An interesting fact, or a particularly difficult assignment. Yuri would listen and then offer a little bit of his characteristic snark. Once, while Otabek was completing a challenging essay during the summer, Yuri stayed up overnight with him, chugging unhealthy amounts of coffee and shouting at him over Skype.

“I suppose so,” is what Otabek says slowly. “Are you going straight into university?”

“English literature at Saint Petersburg State University,” Yuri says promptly.

“English literature,” Otabek repeats.

“Yeah, what?” Yuri sounds defensive again. “I know everyone thinks I’m some dumb jock and that my whole life was spent on skating, but I actually _like_ books.”

Otabek’s never seen Yuri with so much as a brochure, so he says “oh” as he feels jigsaw puzzle pieces sliding loose from their neat configuration inside his head. “You never told me anything about it,” he says finally.

“It’s embarrassing, okay?” Yuri’s hackles are still raised. “Anyway, how would I go about it? ‘By the way, Otabek, I really like to read because it used to be an escape when the older skaters in my group would pick on me, but then I realised that books weren’t cool so I started hiding them, it’s become a habit’?”

“I’m sorry for upsetting you,” Otabek says. There’s a lump in his throat when he imagines a younger Yuri. He wishes he could paint the skies cotton-candy blue for him.

“No, I’m sorry,” Yuri mutters. A pause. “It’s not your fault. I didn’t mean to go off at you. I— You’ve always—” he stops in frustration. Otabek can imagine Yuri running a hand through his hair at these times. Maybe his hand might get caught on a tangle; Yuri would jerk angrily at the strands until they separated. He’d always tense up when Otabek would reach over and use his fingers to gently comb it out for him.

“Just— thank you,” Yuri’s saying. “I was thinking of you, you know. If Otabek Altin can win so many golds through the years with his disgusting lack of resources, I can pass a few exams.”

Otabek swallows.

His mind is racing at twenty miles an hour. The speed of the set-up into a quad, he remembers. It’s been a while since he’s felt dizzy after his jumps, but still he feels like maybe the ice has been knocked out from underneath his blades. Like that split-second before he pops a jump; that jolt of uncertainty.

“So you’re saying that I’m your inspiration.” Otabek deliberately lets amusement creep into his voice.

“You’ve always been,” Yuri says, uncharacteristically serious. “Ever since I was fifteen and you came and whisked me away on a motorcycle in Barcelona.”

*

Yuri tells him that he’s starting ice dancing.

“What,” Otabek says flatly.

“Not _competitively_ , God, you should have seen your face.” Yuri’s laughing and Otabek stares at his laptop screen, almost unwillingly. Pixellated Yuri is in his usual black training clothes. Otabek can see the windows of Yuri’s home rink behind him; Yuri must be sitting facing the Malaya Neva River, looking onto Vasilievsky Island. Otabek can imagine the pretty view, the row of pastel-coloured buildings across the water.

“Yakov is making you work on your skating skills?”

“Yeah,” Yuri sighs. “Can’t learn any more jumps after the quad axel and I usually get level four for my spins, anyway.” As if Otabek and the rest of the world doesn’t know that already. “He said that going back to the basics will help me to improve my jumps. Which, ugh. But I guess it makes sense.”

“Ice dancing will also help with musicality,” Otabek reminds him.

“No, Otabek, please fulfil your duties as a good friend and join me in cursing Yakov’s name to the seventh circle of hell.”

Otabek cracks a smile and then Yuri also grins, like radiant sunlight emerging from behind a cloud.

“You’ll like my partner, I think,” Yuri says. “Valentina Kovalevskaya? Second at Worlds this year with the Black Swan free skate? I didn’t really know her before but she’s got a great sense of humour.”

And now something inside Otabek suddenly slides into coldness; an inexplicably ominous feeling. He remembers Valentina: brown hair, very pretty, very charismatic. A different sort of charisma to Yuri’s; darker, more sensual.

“Yes, I remember that program,” Otabek says distantly. “Her triple axel is really…”

“Yeah, it looks really nice, doesn’t it?” Yuri’s favourite jump is the axel. “Anyway, I didn’t realise how hard it is to twizzle in time with someone else. Kind of embarrassing, actually, but it’s fun. Surprisingly. Valya’s studying human science too, you know. Maybe the three of us could go out for dinner together during a competition or something.”

The Grand Prix Final, then, Otabek supposes. The Grand Prix assignments rarely work out so neatly, and for once, he feels thankful for that. This year, Yuri is at the Rostelecom Cup and Trophée de France. Otabek has been assigned the Trophée de France and the NHK Trophy.

He reminds himself to check Valentina’s schedule later.

“Yeah, maybe,” is what Otabek says in reply. He watches Yuri extend his legs into the splits, right there on the concrete bench. Looking at the motion makes him wince internally, but Yuri seems completely at ease. He’s still one of those once-in-a-generation male skaters who can execute a gorgeous Biellmann spin. “Have you heard back from the university yet?” Otabek asks.

“Yeah, they want me,” Yuri beams at Otabek. He leans forward, neatly folding his body over his forward leg, bringing his face closer to his phone screen propped up on the bench. “Classes start in September. I’m only part-time, of course.”

“Good luck,” Otabek says. “If you need me to pull an all-nighter with you…”

“Then you're going to be up all night, baby,” Yuri smirks. The smirk slips off his face after a while. “Hey, Otabek. You don’t think I’m being too weird about this, right?” His voice is atypically subdued. “You’re really the only friend I’ve ever made on my own. I mean, I don’t—” he hesitates “—really know know how it all works. I wasn’t really— you know. I’m not good with people. But Valya seems to like hanging out with me, and, I don’t know. I just really like her,” Yuri finishes miserably. “What do you think?”

Otabek’s chest twists unpleasantly. “I think you don’t give yourself enough credit,” he says. And then: “I think you should just do whatever makes you happy.”

Some other things he wants to say, but doesn’t: Don’t be insecure. People can fall in love with the way the light falls on your wrists. I wish I could stop you from doubting yourself.

Yuri smiles at him. “That’s fucking stupid, Otabek,” he says. “You should know better.”

Otabek supposes that he should. With elite figure skaters, pain is their currency. They trade in physical and mental extremes and sacrifice their body and youth and comfort. Pushing themselves to and over their limits; doing things that others couldn’t dream of. 

Maybe there’s something inherently self-destructive about this sport that they gave their lives to. Maybe there’s something beautiful about the danger.

He tells Yuri something like that. “Maybe there’s something beautiful about the sacrifices we’ve had to make.”

Yuri frowns.

“Don’t be silly. They only like to watch us because skating looks pretty.”

*

Chaos: when the present determines the future, but the approximate present does not approximately determine the future. Otabek has never asked about Yuri and Valentina’s relationship, but it’s a quiet shock when he thinks that he sees her in some little things that he notices about Yuri.

Like Yuri’s recent foray into obscure indie bands, or Yuri’s new preference for chai latte, or even just keeping a couple of hair ties on his left wrist at all times. Picking up habits like collecting stamps on their passports.

Had he always done that? Otabek can’t remember. He hates that he’s uncertain. He should know, shouldn’t he?

He’s always thought of Yuri as something immutable, untouchable. Like Yuri is his own force of nature, barrelling into other people’s lives in the manner of a hurricane, changing them. Breaking them down, building them up.

Yuri’s not exactly like clockwork, but there’s something reassuringly constant about him. His quick temper, maybe, or the steel in his eyes. Even mundane things like his love of pirozhki and grossly unhealthy foods, or his obsession with the hard metal music which Otabek tries to refuse to put into his mixes on principle.

(Even when Yuri does unfair things like pleading with him, looking at him with those wide green eyes. Sometimes Otabek caves.

Well, maybe more than just ‘sometimes’.)

Otabek likes to think that he knows Yuri. When Yuri’s image appears on his laptop screen, for example, Otabek can tell — by the set of his shoulders, the pinch between his eyebrows — that he’s troubled about something.

But— “You’re wearing glasses,” Otabek says dumbly.

Yuri reaches up and takes them off.

“No, keep them on,” Otabek blurts out.

Yuri looks at him like he’s grown a second head, but he puts them back on and pushes them a little further up his nose self-consciously.

They’re black-rimmed, out of place. But—

Otabek swallows.

“What's the matter with you? You wear glasses too,” Yuri says suspiciously.

“But I’ve never seen _you_ wear them,” Otabek says. More importantly, though— “What’s wrong?” he asks.

Yuri blinks in surprise.

“Valya aggravated an old hip injury in training yesterday,” he says finally. “She had to have surgery. She’s out for the whole season, probably.”

“Oh,” Otabek says. “I’m sorry. I hope that she has a smooth recovery.” The words feel mechanical in his mouth. Otabek hates hearing about these things. It reminds him of their delicacy, their fundamental mortality; how one wrong fall — just a split-second moment — can condemn them for life.

And yet— they all still chose to live like this. They’re still choosing it, every day. Some of them are probably walking time bombs.

Otabek wonders when this became an informed choice.

“Were you there when it happened?” he asks Yuri.

“Nope, I was at uni. It can’t be helped, something like that was going to happen sooner or later.” Yuri is brusque; he brushes strands of hair out from his face before he leans forward and stares at Otabek through his screen. “Otabek, I will kill you dead if you ever hurt yourself like that.”

“Well, I’ll write it on my hand so I don’t forget,” Otabek says dryly.

A fleeting smile crosses Yuri’s face. Despite everything, something in Otabek lightens.

They settle into silence. Yuri’s sitting at a desk; behind him, Otabek can make out the baroque resplendence of Lilia Baranovskaya’s apartment. The high ceilings, the elaborate wall details, the original oil paintings in gilded frames. Yuri’s dragging out new books from a backpack and piling them onto the surface of the desk. Selected Poems of T. S. Eliot, Odyssey, Bleak House, Metamorphoses. It’s not a scene that Otabek’s used to. He stares carefully in order to accustom himself to the idea of Yuri actually studying, wearing the glasses. He looks more vulnerable.

“Hey.” Something suddenly occurs to Otabek. “Do you have a favourite book?”

Yuri pauses in what he’s doing and glances at him. “Why?” He sounds surprised, but not combative.

Otabek catches himself running his right hand through his hair in frustration. He freezes; it’s an action that he usually associates with Yuri. Slowly, he lowers his hand. He shrugs.

“I feel like there’s a whole part of your life that I don’t know about,” he says eventually, trying to suppress the hurt he feels every time he thinks about this, “even though you know everything about me.”

Yuri looks uncomfortable. “I mean— I wasn’t deliberately trying to hide how I liked to read from you or anything. You were always so cool and I wanted you to like me; I didn’t want you to think that I was a silly child. I didn’t think you’d mind so much — I’m sorry.”

Otabek forces himself to smile. “Yeah, okay. I get it. I—”

“The Little Prince,” Yuri says in a rush. “That’s my favourite book. I know it’s stupid, but—”

“I don’t think anything you like can be stupid,” Otabek says, blissfully blocking the concept of leopard print from his mind. “What’s The Little Prince about? What does the prince do?”

“Well.” Yuri runs his fingers through his hair, tugging at the strands. He frowns. “Yeah, it’s going to sound stupid if I describe it. Basically what happens is that an alien goes planet-hopping and then commits suicide. Sort of.”

“ _Sort of_ commits suicide?”

“Yeah.” Yuri’s scowl deepens. “I _told_ you that you’ll think it’s stupid.”

“No, I want to read it.”

“Really?” Yuri’s eyes widen.

He suddenly looks impossibly young, like back at the Grand Prix Final in Barcelona two years ago, asking Otabek why he was talking to him. _I’m a rival, aren’t I?_

Yuri’s evident surprise at basic kindnesses offered to him. Something twists inside Otabek.

“You don’t have to sound so shocked. Despite what you might think about me, I’ve learned how to read.”

Yuri lets out a startled laugh. “Have you? And here I thought you graduated by flexing your muscles at your tutors and bribing them with mixtapes.”

“Some mixtapes may have changed hands once or twice,” Otabek says solemnly.

“I suppose twice is when they chucked them back at you because you don’t use enough metal.” Yuri matches his tone.

Otabek smiles. “Still graduated, didn’t I? Must have been the muscles, then.”

Yuri sneers at him. “Okay then, muscle boy.”

*

Three days later, a parcel arrives in the mail. It bears a Russian postmark — St. Petersburg, specifically.

Otabek unwraps the brown paper and folds out the bubble wrap. He finds a blue hardcover book, in good condition but clearly well-loved, with minor wear and tear at the corners and the pages well-thumbed. On the cover, there’s a simple illustration of a yellow-haired character standing on a grey planet, surrounded by stars.

The title is in English. _The Little Prince._

A short note on a piece of paper tucked between the cover and the first page: “If you like this, you can keep it. I have the French edition.” Nothing else.

Otabek stares at the book and the paper for a few moments. Then he reaches for his phone.

Yuri accepts the call after several rings. “Hi,” he says. He sounds breathless, but in a good mood. “You have really good timing. Yakov’s just kicked me off the ice for my break.”

“I got your book,” Otabek says. He stops. He didn’t think this far ahead about what to say.

“Oh, good.” Otabek can hear the smile in Yuri’s voice. It’s refreshing. “I hope you like it. Take care of it or I’ll kick your ass.”

“I will,” Otabek promises.

“Good,” Yuri says again. “Remember that they’re only words and that they can’t hurt you.”

“It’s a children’s book. I’ll look at the pictures if I get stuck,” Otabek retorts with a little snark. He’s picked up a few things from Yuri. “How was uni?”

“Not bad,” Yuri says. Otabek can hear him moving around. “Actually, I met someone cool today. We’re seeing Les Misérables next week and I want to finish the book by then.”

“Someone…?” Otabek prompts.

“You know that girl in my class who got better results than me? She’s in my course now. Anna Chugunova. She’s going to give me her notes when I can’t make it to my classes.”

Otabek had been thinking that he could wrap Yuri up in cotton wool and hide him from the world. Shield him from the people who could hurt him, stop him from hurting himself. Yuri didn’t deserve bad things. And Otabek— well, it was a stupid wish, and quite selfish, and yet— he had wanted...

“Anna Vasilievna Chugunova,” Otabek repeats faintly.

“You’d like her,” Yuri says.

*

As expected, Yuri wins the Rostelecom Cup. He skates flawlessly to break his own record in the free skate, throwing in his unparalleled quad axel which makes Otabek’s heart jump into his throat. On the same day, Otabek receives another carefully-wrapped parcel, this time postmarked in Moscow.

_Murder on the Orient Express._

And a note: “ _Maybe you’ll enjoy this one more._ ”

Otabek messages Yuri: _Congratulations._

And: _Thank you for the book._

Yuri’s next competition is the Trophée de France, barely a week away. In this condition, he will be difficult to beat, but Otabek will be happy with silver. He’s learnt to choose his battles, especially when it comes to Yuri. And when it comes to Yuri, he’s found that he doesn’t mind, anyway.

Sometimes he feels like the Little Prince with his rose, whom he would do anything for.

(But that’s not fair. Yuri never asked him to, after all.)

*

Otabek narrowly beats Yuri in the short program after Yuri doubles his quad salchow and then triples his planned quad axel. There’s a slight flatness to Yuri’s skating. An uncharacteristic nervousness, cautiousness. Otabek wants to reach out and touch him and ask him if he’s alright.

Otabek finds out the reason why soon enough, when Yuri drags him out for dinner.

They meet up with Yuri’s grandfather and a blonde-haired girl outside a Parisian restaurant. She has large blue eyes and a wide smile. She beams brighter than the glittering lights of Paris when she catches sight of them approaching.

“Yuri!” Even her voice sounds unbearably pretty. She envelops Yuri in a hug. Yuri lets her.

Yuri introduces her as Anna.

Otabek has only met Yuri’s grandfather on a handful of occasions, but Anna seems familiar with him. She chooses a seat next to him inside the cheery restaurant, facing Yuri and Otabek on the other side of the table. She asks Otabek about Almaty.

“It’s alright,” he says bemusedly. “It’s home.”

“I really want to visit Kazakhstan,” Anna says earnestly. Her enthusiasm is, despite everything, quite endearing.

When Yuri orders the cordon bleu (in fluent French, Otabek can’t help but notice), she leans closer to him with a sly smile.

“Shouldn’t you be watching your girlish figure?” she says.

“You’re the one who needs to worry about that,” Yuri snaps, but Otabek can see the smile that tugs at the corners of his lips. 

(Even with the elegant trenchcoat that Anna is wearing, Otabek can see that her figure is svelte underneath.)

In any case, Anna grins delightedly at his response. Yuri’s grandfather is aghast. “Yurochka!” he exclaims, voice heavy with disapproval.

“Don’t worry about Yuri’s manners, Nikolai,” Anna reassures him mock-seriously. “A tiger can’t change its stripes.”

Yuri stares at her. “Did you just… you _did_ ,” he says in disgust as Anna breaks into laughter. He tugs his leopard-print scarf tighter around his neck. “Fuck off,” he grumbles, and he looks so much like a ticked-off kitten that Otabek can’t help but smile.

Yuri’s grandfather explains that they had wanted to surprise Yuri, with Anna wanting to see a figure skating competition and himself wanting to see Paris.

“I’m becoming an old man, you know. I have to take these opportunities to see my Yurochka whenever I can,” he says, and Otabek watches Yuri turn pale.

On their way back to their hotel, Yuri is quiet. Finally, he tells Otabek that “I’m really glad that Anna’s keeping Grandpa company. I always get worried that he’s lonely, with me training like this in St. Petersburg. I know that it’s hard to have a grandson like me.”

“I’m sure that he’s very proud of you,” Otabek says helplessly.

A brief smile flashes across Yuri’s face. “Maybe, but I wish I could spend more time with him all the same.”

Of course family isn’t something Otabek can just give Yuri, but — with something rushing crushingly through his chest — he wishes that he could.

“I didn’t have a choice about skating, you know,” Yuri continues. “I had no idea what I was getting myself into. But they said that I would be earning money for Grandpa if I joined the state sports system, so I did.”

“Do you regret it?” Otabek asks him.

Yuri is quiet for a long moment. When Otabek is beginning to think that he won’t answer, Yuri breaks the silence. “No,” he says. “No, I don’t think that I do. Skating is the only thing that I’m good at.”

No, it’s not, Otabek wants to say. No, you are a force of nature and unstoppable, you have endless worlds behind your verdant eyes, you are the bravest person I have ever met, you are the most brilliant and heartbreaking and deserving. I wish you could have everything that you ever wanted.

But when Otabek opens his mouth, he finds that his throat has clogged up. It’s hard to breathe.

They walk back to their hotel in silence.

*

As expected, Yuri wins the Trophée de France with a shining free skate. Not quite record-breaking this time, but he neatly lands all but one of his jumps. Otabek ends up with the silver. After the medal ceremony, Otabek listens to Yuri rant about ‘that damn quad flip, Lilia fucking knew that I didn’t want Victor’s trademark jump’.

It’s been awhile since he’s sworn so profusely.

A couple of days before Otabek’s flight to Sapporo for the NHK Trophy, another brown-wrapped parcel arrives for him. He’s only half-way through Murder on the Orient Express but he opens it in curiosity anyway.

It’s _The Great Gatsby_. The face on the blue cover is unsettling.

“I already know what happens,” Otabek tells Yuri over the phone. “I saw the film when it came out.”

“Read it anyway,” Yuri says, so Otabek places it into his carry-on luggage for Japan.

In The Little Prince, there’s a lamplighter who wastes his life by blindly following orders. Otabek thinks that maybe it’s important to clarify who exactly is giving the directions. He doesn’t mind, for example, if it’s Yuri’s wishes he’s following. How could be a waste if it makes Yuri so pleased?

*

Otabek wins gold at the NHK Trophy, forcing Yuuri Katsuki into second place. And thus Otabek comfortably qualifies for the Grand Prix Final.

Yuri’s with Anna when he calls Otabek with his congratulations. “We watched both your programs together on livestream,” he says. “I had to explain all your elements to her. I thought I knew your free skate layout but you changed it?”

“I didn’t feel like the quad sal then, so I switched it out,” Otabek says shortly.

“It’s really cool how you can work out what to change during your performance,” Yuri says, sounding awed. “I sort of just go blank and hope for the best…”

“Thanks,” Otabek says distantly.

He’s working out the time differences in his head. The six-hour difference meant that the men’s competitions in Sapporo both began after one o’clock in the morning in St. Petersburg. Yuri and Anna being together in the middle of the night…

“Sorry, I have to go,” Otabek says. He disconnects the call.

*

At Marseille, he quietly checks into his hotel for the Grand Prix Final. The Russian skaters have arrived a day earlier, and he slips silently past Victor Nikiforov with the Japanese delegation in the lobby and is unimpeded on his way to his room.

Quiet is too much to hope for, though. Insistent knocking begins against the door just as he throws himself onto the bed.

“Otabek? Open up, I know you’re in there.” Yuri.

Otabek tries burying his head under the pillows to block out the sound, even he knows that this never works. He only does it to lengthen the time before he ends up opening the door to Yuri. Meanwhile, the banging only gets louder.

He reluctantly pulls himself up and opens the door.

Yuri’s glaring at him.

He’s wearing his glasses.

“At least Victor’s good for _something_. You’re very annoying,” Yuri says, blithely ignoring the irony of his comment coming after his loud attack on Otabek’s door. “Also, fuck you.”

Otabek doesn’t think that he’s ever seen those glasses in person. Before, he had thought that they made Yuri look more vulnerable, but now he thinks that they make Yuri look older. More worldly, even elegant.

“I’m pretty mad at you, so you’re going to get slaughtered this week. I’ll make you into,” Yuri frowns. “Into— borscht.” He looks down into the corridor and — as if on cue — a member of the hotel staff arrives with room service. Bemused, Otabek steps back to let them into his room. He watches as two trays and a large platter are unloaded onto his table, and he stares as Yuri and the staff member converse quickly in French.

“It’s bouillabaisse,” Yuri finally slips back into Russian.

Otabek stares blankly at him.

“Say ‘bless you’,” Yuri prompts.

“‘Bless you’?” Otabek repeats.

Yuri sighs and rubs at his eyes behind his glasses. “So anyway, I thought you’d be hungry after your flight. Just eat it.”

Otabek eats it, but his chest is feeling too funny to enjoy the meal as much as he should. Yuri also eats in uncharacteristic silence.

On his way out, Yuri extracts a book from his backpack and leaves it on the bed. _Wuthering Heights._

“I wish you would tell me what’s wrong, Otabek. I hope that you feel better soon.”

*

After three years of straight victory at the Grand Prix Final, Yuri loses his crown to Otabek.

“Asshole,” he says as he reaches up the podium to hug Otabek during the medal ceremony. He doesn’t seem too vexed, though.  “Just wait for Worlds. I’m good at making borscht, you know.”

Otabek’s sure that he is.

Winning gold for Kazakhstan had been Otabek’s dream ever since he realised it was within the realms of possibility. He’s won the Four Continents and even Worlds, but the Grand Prix Final had always been Yuri’s event. A little frustrating (both for himself and Yuri, who would have liked to peak at Worlds instead) but he’s learnt to live with it.

This victory feels hollow.

Otabek knows that Yuri is an emotional skater. Even before speaking to him in Barcelona, he’d watched him underperform in his first year as a senior. He’d watched him as he bowed down to his fear of losing Victor at that little Hot Springs on Ice competition. Watched him as he succumbed to his frenzied desperation about losing to JJ Leroy at Skate Canada. Watched him as something tormented him during his short program at the Rostelecom Cup. He was so young, back then.

Anna’s here in Marseille.

Her family’s summer house is near here, she had explained after one of their practice sessions, would Yuri and Otabek like to stay for a few days after the competition?

“What she means is that her family is disgustingly rich,” Yuri had interjected and she had coloured lightly, embarrassed by the fact. “Instead of a regular dacha in the Russian countryside, they have to have one in France as well.”

Otabek had politely declined the invitation, and almost bombed his short program the day after.

Yuri bombs his free skate two days later.

He comes to the airport with Otabek. “Lilia wanted me to take a break with Anna, even for half a day,” he scowls. “No fucking chance of that. Anna gets it. I’m going to win Nationals, and then win Europeans, and then win Worlds.”

He’s never lost his competitive nature.

Otabek reads half of Wuthering Heights on the flight back to Almaty. He finds the characters extremely irritating. (Perhaps it’s Yuri’s idea of revenge.) The crew members tell them to open the windows as the plane prepares to land.

He thinks about The Little Prince, with the train passengers rushing from one place to another. Never satisfied with where they were, never knowing what they were after. Only the children ever bothered to look out the windows.

The clouds are bright outside.

Only a week after that (Otabek had made no more progress on Wuthering Heights), he receives a large boxed parcel in the post. It’s emblazoned with the logo of an online bookstore. Inside, he finds a brand-new boxset of the seven Harry Potter books.

On the delivery slip, there’s a space for the sender’s comments.

_The Goblet of Fire. Page 251._

*

They say that some skaters have glass hearts. Yuri isn’t made of glass. He blitzes through the Russian Nationals with a fifteen-point margin over the silver medallist.

Otabek sees Anna in the background of one of Yuri’s Instagram posts, texting on her phone with one of Yuri’s distinctive leopard-print jackets slung over her arm. She looks gorgeous, and together, they look like some untouchable power couple, with their matching blond hair and pale colouring.

Yuri doesn’t mention her in his post, but his fans immediately erupt with speculation about her identity. This furore spreads to Twitter, Tumblr, forums, Facebook groups.

“Otabek, please start dating someone so they stop talking about us,” Yuri moans.

Otabek smiles a little manically, not that Yuri can tell over the voice call. “You know that your fans are a little crazy,” he says. “No one would care half so much about me.”

“I would,” Yuri says. “Otabek, I wish you—”

People in committed relationships like to assume that everyone else is desperate to find their significant other. Otabek cuts Yuri off before he can express something along those lines. “I’m fine with how I am now. Maybe you can start riding a motorbike and wearing leather, give them something else to talk about.”

“Leave me alone,” Yuri grumbles, but Otabek can hear the smile in his voice.

*

Otabek flips straight to page 251 in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. 

 _“What’s_ that _?” said Ron, pointing at a large dish of some sort of shellfish stew that stood beside a large steak-and-kidney pudding._

_“Bouillabaisse,” said Hermione._

_“Bless you,” said Ron._

_“It’s_ French _,” said Hermione, “I had it on holiday summer before last. It’s very nice.”_

*

Yuri dominates at Europeans. Otabek dominates at the Four Continents. The book-shaped parcel is waiting for Otabek when he arrives back in Almaty from Gangneung, South Korea.

 _1984_ and _Animal Farm._

“A little depressing,” he comments to Yuri. “But I’m developing quite a library.” He turns his phone around and shows Yuri his rapidly-filling bookshelf. It used to only house his records, some knick-knacks, a couple of succulents. He’s cleared a large space for those books.

Yuri’s still staring blankly when he turns his phone camera back to himself.

“Yuri?”

Yuri blinks. “Y-yeah,” he says. “That’s— that’s weird.”

“What’s weird?”

“You. Books. My books.” Yuri seems to be struggling with his words. “I’ve never associated you with reading.”

“Are we going to start this again?” Otabek asks.

“No!” Yuri’s eyes are wide. “Just— thank you.”

Otabek frowns. “For what? You’re the one giving me all of these books. I should be thanking you for your dedication to my cultural education,” he says, hoping to tempt a smile.

“That’s not what I mean.” Yuri’s frowning. He reaches up and tugs his hair tie out from his hair and then aggressively combs his fingers through the mess. “Just. Thank you for giving me a chance.”

“Thank you for giving me your time,” Otabek says carefully.

_It is the time you have lost for your rose that makes your rose so important._

That’s what the fox told the Little Prince, anyway.

Yuri looks surprised, and uncertain. He opens his mouth, but then seems to think better of what he was about to say. He blinks mutely at Otabek for a few seconds, before he snaps out of his stupor.

“I have to go to uni,” he says. His voice is unsteady; he sounds younger than usual. “I. I’ll talk to you soon. Good luck for Worlds.”

*

Otabek has technically never stayed in Helsinki before, although he has been to Espoo for the Finlandia Trophy, which he hears is only a twenty-minute bus ride away. His coach tells him to relax before the short program, but Otabek wakes up with a distinct tightness in his shoulders the day before.

His coach orders him off the ice early. “Stop worrying,” he rebukes him. “Hire a motorcycle and see the city. Then have an early night tonight.”

Otabek sighs and leaves for an early dinner. He hadn’t seen Yuri at all today, but doubtlessly, he would be working hard in the second practice rink. Maybe having a screaming match with Yakov Feltsman. Maybe receiving well-wishes from St. Petersburg.

Or maybe burning down the city streets on a motorbike, dressed in black leather and blond hair streaming from below his helmet. The bike stops right in front of Otabek, and Otabek feels his mouth go dry as he looks at Yuri.

“Well?” Yuri’s eyes are bright. He’s grinning and he chucks the spare helmet at Otabek. “Are you getting on or not?”

Otabek’s heart quickens.

“How unoriginal,” Otabek says, after he climbs on behind Yuri.

“So sorry that I’m not a drama queen like you,” Yuri shouts, expertly manoeuvring his motorcycle through the queues of cars caught in the evening gridlock at a speed that makes even Otabek nervous. 

“Calm down, I know what I’m doing.”

Otabek loosens his arms slightly from their position around Yuri’s waist.

They end up in a relatively quiet alley in front of a yellow building. Yuri parks the bike and walks straight through the double doors. Through the lobby to the set of elevators. He fiddles with his phone as their car ascends to the top floor, and then leads Otabek up a spiral staircase. There’s a cafe, but Yuri bypasses that to push through a glass door to the side.

It’s a rooftop terrace with a gorgeous view over the city. The sun is just beginning to set; Helsinki is bathed in the liquid gold of its rays. Its colourful buildings are dyed into warm hues. Otabek’s breath catches at the sight.

“I’m not going to make some comment about your eyes, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Yuri says abruptly.

Otabek, startled, lets out his breath in a quick rush. Almost a laugh. Yuri’s staring straight ahead into the distance.

“Thank you for the clarification,” Otabek says eventually.

“I don’t— why’re you— you know that Anna’s not—” Yuri ends up making a frustrated sound. “I don’t understand you sometimes, Otabek.”

“Oh,” Otabek says. He feels a heavy disappointment settle somewhere inside his stomach. “I’m sorry, then.”

“Yeah,” Yuri says softly, still staring into the burnt-orange of the dying sun. “So am I.”

*

Yuri is an emotional skater. His performances aren’t exactly train wrecks, but he makes enough mistakes in both programs to cost him the gold. There’s an odd desperation in his skating that hasn’t been there in a while. His heartbreaking vulnerability leaves the Yuri Angels distressed and inconsolable.

Otabek tries to physically swallow his unhappiness at Yuri’s evident chagrin after his free skate. Yuri’s eyes are brighter than usual when he forces a smile and congratulates Otabek at the medal ceremony.

“I’m sorry,” Otabek says helplessly as he lets Yuri go.

“What for?” Yuri stares back at him defiantly, chin tilted up and that awful fake smile gone. He steps onto the second place at the podium and holds his head high.

Yuri doesn’t speak to him after that. He performs in the gala but skips the closing banquet. With a heavy heart, Otabek assumes that’s the end of that. His coach is sensitive enough to rub him on the back sympathetically instead of congratulating him on his apparent victory. His flight to Almaty is scheduled for the next morning. What an end to a season.

He arrives at Helsinki-Vantaa Airport to Yuri Plisetsky staring him down in front of the check-in counters.

“May I speak to Otabek for a few moments,” Yuri says to his coach flatly before dragging him away.

“You have some nerve,” Otabek tells him. Yuri stops, and wheels around.

“Yes. Yes, I suppose that I do.” Yuri says. “I sent books to you regularly. I ordered room service for you as soon as your flight touched down in Marseille. I took you to a fucking rooftop to watch the sunset.”

“Your point?” Otabek keeps his voice steady.

“My point?” Yuri laughs, a little abruptly, a little hysterically. “I don’t. I don’t know.”

“You were waiting for me, though,” Otabek ventures carefully. “So you had something that you wanted to say to me. Did you—”

“Did I?” Yuri says. “I suppose that I did. Why are you so annoying?”

“Well, natural talent, I suppose,” Otabek says dryly. “Is that all, or—”

“I’m breaking it off with Anna,” Yuri says in a rush. “She was the one who— you know that I’m not good at this.” He doesn’t define what ‘this’ is. “You said it was alright to do whatever made me happy. I thought this would make me happy. I thought, I wanted a friend, I wanted a family. I just wanted someone to like me for who I was. I would have done anything. And she liked me, and she was so similar to me, and I thought—”

“I like you for who you are.” Otabek’s walking into a car crash and he can’t stop himself from stepping on the broken glass.

“I know. But you scare me. I looked up to you. How could you ever like me when you were so—” Yuri breaks off. He grabs Otabek’s hand, a little desperately. “Just, thank you. Have a safe flight.”

He lets go.

*

Yuri and Anna arrive at Almaty International Airport in the early morning. It’s a five-hour flight, and Otabek buys two coffees for them.

Yuri is first through the gates and he comes charging at Otabek. Otabek places the takeaway cups on a bench and receives his flying bear hug stoically. Anna follows at a more sedate pace, wheeling a trolley piled high with their luggage.

When she joins them, she kicks Yuri in the shin. “Yuri,” she says loudly. “What did we talk about?”

“Go away, Anna,” Yuri mumbles against Otabek’s shoulder.

Anna rolls her eyes and jabs at Yuri’s back with her elbow. “You’re useless, is what you are, Yuri,” she says slowly. “Come on. It’s not hard. We rehearsed—”

“Fuck off,” Yuri says, but he extricates himself from Otabek. “Okay, I—”

Anna continues to stare at him pointedly.

“Stop looking at me. Fine. Otabek, I—” He seems to come to a quick decision, and reaches across to take Otabek’s hand. Just as the speakers blare with another announcement, he brings Otabek’s hand higher.

He brushes his lips against the knuckles, feather-quick.

He pauses, as though unsure of how to proceed. And then:

“You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed,” he says.

Outside, dawn is just breaking over the horizon.


End file.
